But still… I was angry.

Angry at him. Angry at our life. Angry at feeling left behind.

Then he got sick.

And suddenly, none of that mattered anymore.

The man who had always been strong for me could barely walk across the room without stopping to catch his breath.

We couldn’t afford help.

So I took care of him myself.

I helped him move, fed him, made sure he took his medicine. I balanced everything with my final year of school, trying not to fall apart.

One evening, after helping him into bed, he looked at me differently.

— “Lila… I need to tell you something.”

— “Later, Grandpa. You need to rest.”

But “later” never came.

He passed away quietly in his sleep.

And just like that… I was alone.

The house felt empty. Heavy.

Then the bills started coming.

Electricity. Water. Taxes.

I didn’t know what to do.

He had left me the house… but how was I supposed to keep it?

I thought I’d have to sell it just to survive.

Then, two weeks later, my phone rang.

Unknown number.

Continued on the next page